


No Sincerer Love

by elisela



Series: No Sincerer Love [3]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Christopher Diaz is a National Treasure, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: Evan Buckley has a problem, and his name is Eddie Diaz.Specifically, Eddie Diaz and his absolutely inability to do anything competently in a kitchen other than heat up pre-made food in a microwave.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Series: No Sincerer Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714489
Comments: 68
Kudos: 851
Collections: 9 1 1





	No Sincerer Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisissirius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/gifts).



> This is what happens when all we talk about on the discord is how Eddie is a terrible cook, and then I flail with thisissirius about Chris feels. matan4il was very sweet to look this over for me and correct all my middle-of-the-night writing.

Evan Buckley has a problem, and his name is Eddie Diaz. 

Specifically, Eddie Diaz and his absolutely inability to do anything competently in a kitchen other than heat up pre-made food in a microwave.

Buck had thought it was endearing at first. His confident, knowledgeable, _extremely sexy_ boyfriend was an absolute disaster in the kitchen, and he needed _Buck_ to take care of him and his child. Not that he had said that in so many words, but Buck wants Christopher to grow up strong and healthy and he’s pretty sure the longitudinal studies on only eating food that comes from boxes and cans are bad. 

He laughs through Eddie’s casserole phase (he’s pretty sure Eddie sees through his “I took the leftovers to work” lie, and hopes he doesn’t check the garbage too carefully), suffers in silence during the slow-cooker month from hell (whoever told Eddie to put grape jelly in meatballs deserves to have their taste buds die a very painful death), and is very thankful that they don’t all die when Eddie drags the pressure cooker home. 

His cautious, “you know those are temperamental, right? And you have to be very careful about the pressure setting?” hadn’t gone over well. Buck had tried, to no avail, to explain that _yes_ , he knew Eddie was a firefighter, but he was a firefighter who had _no sense_ when it came to cooking. 

So when Eddie manages to set fire to a frozen pizza, Buck knows it has gone too far—no matter how small Eddie claimed the fire was, or how he was certain he wasn’t the first person to forget about the cardboard and plastic wrap. His problem, though, is figuring out what to do about it. Buck knows that Eddie’s not laboring under the delusion that he’s a good cook, but it would hurt Eddie’s pride a little too much to hear that he’s in need of some serious help. He also knows it won’t help much to start leaving books everywhere, both because Eddie is a visual learner, and because Buck has never seen him pick up a book unless he’s reading to Christopher. 

So he ponders the problems for a few days, immediately rejecting most of the ideas he comes up with, until he and Chris are three episodes deep into a _Barefoot Contessa_ marathon and it hits him. 

He might not be able to get Eddie to listen to anyone else, but Eddie has _always_ listened to Buck, and he usually sits at the kitchen table when Buck is cooking, gazing at him with hearts in his eyes (or so Buck likes to think). 

Buck’s about to launch the pilot episode of his brand-new, live (for Eddie’s eyes only) cooking show. 

He sits on the idea for a few days, letting it turn over in his mind, figuring out the best way to make it happen. Eddie’s not dumb by any means, and if Buck makes what he’s doing too obvious, the whole thing might crash and burn before it really gets going. So he thinks about how to start, and what Eddie needs to know first. He writes down all of Christopher’s favorite meals and goes through them in his head, step by step, ingredient by ingredient. He tries to figure out the easiest meal he can start with, and he watches. He watches Eddie watch him in the kitchen. He watches how often Eddie pays attention to what he’s doing (almost never) and how often Eddie listens to what he’s saying (almost always). 

And then he makes a plan. 

Buck knows how to get what he wants from his boyfriend. He knows his indulgences, his weaknesses, when to push and when to back off. He knows that Eddie will do anything for his family, and that he loves Christopher with a depth and intensity that takes Buck’s breath away.

He also knows that Eddie is a complete sucker for Buck doing _anything_ with Christopher, and he is ready and willing to shamelessly exploit that fact. 

It takes some cajoling to get Christopher on board with his plan—unlike Buck, he is of the opinion that his father was simply born with a complete lack of ability and he’s happy enough to never let Eddie near his food ever again—but Buck promises him that he won’t have to eat anything Eddie makes if he doesn’t want to (an easy promise to make—Christopher is too kind to look his father in the eye and refuse, and Buck knows it) and Chris gives in. 

He starts the next day. They’re in the kitchen, making breakfast, and he’s put Eddie in charge of the toast while he gets ready to make scrambled eggs. He knows that Eddie is perfectly capable of using a toaster, and he wants to give him a boost of confidence before the lesson he doesn’t know he’s about to receive. He chatters throughout the cooking process, trying to casually narrate what he’s doing, asking Christopher questions like, “how hot should the pan be?” and “do we put milk or water in our mix?” and “how much salt should I put in here? Can you show me what a pinch looks like?” before he tries out the hands-on portion. 

The eggs have just started cooking, and Buck knows from experience that at his heat setting, he’s got about five minutes before they’re done. “Eddie,” he says, “can you stir these while I go to the bathroom?”

Eddie looks wary. Behind him, Christopher is wearing a matching expression.

“It’s not a big deal, you just have to move the spoon like this.” Buck demonstrates, making slow circles with the wooden spoon, showing Eddie how to go from the outside towards the inside and back. “I’ll be back before they’re done. Please.”

Eddie shrugs and takes the spoon from him. “I’m fine with stirring,” he says. “You sure that’s all I have to do?”

“Yep.” Buck passes him the spoon, kisses his cheek, and leaves. It’s almost torturous to wait a full minute and a half before noisily flushing the toilet, washing his hands, and making his way back to the kitchen.

The eggs are brown. Buck exchanges a look with Christopher, who gives him a clear _I told you so_ look and sighs. 

“Eggs are done,” Eddie says cheerfully. “I turned the heat up a bit, they were cooking pretty slow.”

The burner is on high. When Buck had considered how to teach Eddie the basics, he hadn’t even thought to teach him that you don’t cook everything on high. 

When Eddie turns away, he lifts the pan off the stove, kicks the oven softly, and dumps the eggs onto the floor. “I think there was water on the floor,” he says, in an apologetic tone that could win him an Oscar. “I dropped my glass this morning and I guess I didn’t clean it all up. Sorry.”

Eddie’s laughing at him. “Want me to get more eggs out for you?”

“That was the last,” Buck says. “Looks like breakfast at The Kitchen is on me, Diaz family. Chris, want to share a waffle with me?”

Christopher, looking delighted, informs Buck that he’ll be eating his own waffle, thank you very much. 

“I think we should stop,” Christopher says the next morning, when Buck sits him down at the table and slides an omelet in front of him. “Dad’s not doing a very good job.”

Buck sighs. His first two attempts had not gone well; after the egg incident, he had, in his unfailing optimism, asked Eddie to mash the potatoes at dinner, explaining that he just needed to add half a cup of cream and smash everything together. And he’d honestly thought Eddie could do it—he’d already measured out the cream and handed Eddie the potato ricer on his way out of the room.

He hadn’t expected for the blender to be brought into play, but they’d ended up with something more akin to soup than mashed potatoes—and then Eddie had said something that Buck wasn’t sure he could ever forgive. 

_“I think I have a box of potato flakes around here somewhere, we could add them.”_

Buck had almost ended things then and there. 

“We just have to refine things a little,” he assures Chris. “Your dad’s a pretty smart cookie, he’ll pick it up.”

“It’s tough cookie,” Chris says, looking unconvinced. “Like Dad would make if we ever let him try.”

Buck _almost_ hides his laugh. “He’s gotta learn, buddy. I can’t cook every meal.”

“You should just teach me instead,” Chris says. “I’m old enough to use the stove.”

“Oh, you’re definitely learning, too. Who else is going to feed me when I’m old?”

“Your nurse,” Chris says, and bursts into a fit of giggles. “Are you going to be my dad when I’m older?”

Buck shrugs. “Your dad and I haven’t really talked about that,” he says. It’s a lie. They’ve talked about it enough for Buck to hear Eddie say _what’s so great about marriage_ , and Buck had never brought it up again. To be fair, that was a conversation they had before they realized they were essentially dating each other, but the words ring in Buck’s ears every time he considers asking about it, so he just … never has. 

“You should,” Chris says.

“And you should eat before we have to take you to school hungry,” Buck says, gesturing to his untouched food. “What do you want to learn to cook first? We can teach your dad at the same time.”

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Chris says without hesitation. “But just teach me. Remember Dad and the chicken?”

Oh, Buck remembered. He wasn’t sure he would ever _forget_. He’s still not sure if Eddie had believed him when he tried to tell him that it was called blackened chicken because of the spice mix that was used, not because the chicken was burned to a crisp.

Maybe beyond a crisp. Buck thinks he could have used it as a drawing tool if he hadn’t been so disgusted. 

“Have some faith in your old man,” he tells Chris. “And seriously, eat your food or it’ll be cereal tomorrow.”

“How come Eddie never learned to cook?” Buck asks, pulling another tamale towards him and folding it tightly. He loves their Friday morning routine; after dropping Chris at school, Eddie goes and does whatever he needs to do (sometimes it’s a workout, sometimes hiking, and sometimes he goes shopping—which he never mentions to Buck, but Buck’s familiar enough with Find My Friends _and_ nosy enough to spy on his boyfriend, so he figures it out pretty quickly) because with all the time they spend together at work and with Chris, they’d learned early on that having time for themselves was very important, and Buck comes here. 

He doesn’t remember how he started to spend every Friday morning with Abuela. He knows it was before they started dating and he thinks it might have been because Eddie was worried about his grandmother needing someone to take her shopping while he was out with the flu, or maybe it was the time she had needed some tiles replaced on the roof and Eddie had to take Chris to the doctors—either way, it doesn’t matter. After he drops Chris off, he buys the groceries from the list she reads him the night before, picks up coffee and conchas and shows up at 10:00 promptly. 

“Ah, that was our fault, Evito,” she says, setting the empty spoon she was using to fill the tamales down and patting his hand. “We spoiled him—all the boys. The Diaz men don’t cook, their women do it for them. _Hijo_ , Eddie has always had someone to care for him, even if he thinks he was on his own. When Shannon left, his _mamá_ was there. It was hard for him, here, until you came.”

Buck can feel himself blush. “Bobby took care of him,” he says. “He used to send Eddie with all the leftovers whenever our shift ended.” 

“He is a good man,” Abuela says. “As are you. Why the questions?”

Buck stands up, stretches, and reaches across the table for another bowl. He pops the lid off before handing it to Abuela, taking a peek inside and grinning. 

“ _Si, chili y queso_ ,” she says, chuckling. “I know your favorites.”

“I’m not sharing with Eddie,” he says, and she laughs.

“Good, they’re not for him,” she says. Buck loves Friday mornings. He loves having a grandma who cares about him, who _dotes_ on him, who remembers his favorite foods and always finds a way to share them with him. He loves being here, in this house with the sunlight pouring through the windows, full of warmth. “Tell me. Why ask about Eddie? Usually you do not.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t normally talk about Eddie, and neither does she. This time is about _them_ , and Buck has always tried to honor the fact that she’s Eddie’s family first, so he refrains from asking questions, or requesting stories about his boyfriend’s childhood, and he never says a _word_ if he happens to be upset with Eddie, though he’s pretty sure Abuela always knows. “I’m going to teach him and Christopher to cook,” he says. 

“Make sure he’s safe,” she says. 

“I’m going to order some adaptive supplies so it minimizes the risk,” Buck says. “I just need to look them up. I know they make them.”

“I mean Eddie,” Abuela says, smiling. “I’m not worried about Christopher, he’s always safe with you. Now get back to work, Evito, those tamales don’t fill themselves”

Buck spends the rest of his day researching. He watches YouTube videos that show how to adapt cooking for kids with physical disabilities, goes through how to cook spaghetti in his head and questions every step. He doesn’t want to just teach Chris how to help him cook, he wants to show him that he can do more than use the microwave on his own. He writes down all the things he thinks Chris might need help with: stirring the sauce and holding the pan at the same time, opening up cans of tomatoes, chopping up the onions, draining the spaghetti. The task energizes him—he’s always loved figuring out how to help Chris grow and learn. 

He gets everything ordered, barely cringing at the price, and waits. 

It’s torture. 

In the meantime, he takes to explaining everything he’s doing to Christopher in the most direct terms he can use. He’s pretty sure he repeats “unless you’re searing or boiling something, always start on medium heat” at least twenty times, to the point that Chris starts finishing the sentence for him, looking like he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. 

It doesn’t matter—three days later, Buck’s phone rings just as he’s setting a pan out for omelets (Chris is in a phase, okay, and Buck is a little _too_ indulgent) and just as he’s going to go dig for it in the couch cushions, Eddie calls, “medium heat, right?” and Buck feels victorious.

The boxes of equipment are stacked neatly on the porch when they get home from the park on Thursday afternoon, and it takes all three of them to drag them in. Christopher’s eyes are wide with glee as Buck pulls everything out one at a time, explaining what each piece is used for if it’s not obvious. 

He doesn’t miss the look in Eddie’s eyes, the one that says _I love the way you love him_ , the only time Eddie’s really _free_ with his feelings. Buck loves that look, he could bask in the soft way that Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the corners, in the tender way he watches him forever; he is born in and dies in that look, he would give the entire world to Christopher if he could just get Eddie to look at him that way for the rest of his life.. 

Buck is so busy watching Eddie watch him that he nearly misses it when Christopher excuses himself to his room to finish his homework before dinner, and the next thing he knows, Eddie is standing right in front of him, one hand on Buck’s belt buckle. 

“You’re so good for us,” Eddie says. His thumb dips below the top of Buck’s pants and Buck feels his brain short-circuit. He hardly remembers to breathe, his entire life is just this moment, waiting. “Gonna be good for you tonight,” Eddie adds, his lips suddenly too close and not close enough to Buck’s ear. 

He makes a strangled sound, he’s not even sure what he’s trying to say, but when Eddie presses a kiss just behind his ear and then _backs away_ , Buck breathes out, “mean, so mean, I hate you so much Edmundo Diaz, you’re the worst—“ and Eddie laughs at him. 

“Gotta wait til the kid’s in bed,” he says apologetically.

Buck takes several deep breaths, pulling himself back together, definitely _not_ thinking about his appallingly sexy boyfriend telling him he was going to be _good for him_ —“you are the worst,” he hisses again. “You did this on _purpose_ and I hate you.”

Eddie laughs again, reaches out and pulls him close. His body against Buck’s is almost too much to bear. “Payback’s a bitch,” he whispers in Buck’s ear. “Told you I’d get you back for that little ice trick last week.”

“Hate!” Buck calls out when Eddie lets him go and backs out of the room, looking smug. “Despise! _Absolute loathing_.”

He kicks at the packaging strewn around the room, willing his body to control itself and not chase Eddie out of the room, pick him up, and throw him down on the bed. He’s in the middle of picking all the garbage up when Eddie’s arms wrap around him from behind.

“Love you,” Eddie says quietly in his ear. “I know how much effort you put in for Chris. I see you.”

Buck’s traitorous body melts into Eddie’s at his words, his heart clenching and unfurling and he’s so close to tossing aside teaching Eddie anything because he will do whatever he can for the rest of his life to take care of Eddie. Buck loves him so much that he forgets how to feel anything else sometimes.

But. 

“I still hate you,” he says, smiling. “Go help Chris, I’m going to run to the grocery store. I promised I’d teach him how to make spaghetti and meatballs tonight.”

Buck can’t decide if he or Christopher is the bigger genius. Christopher because he unwittingly picked a meal that had a bit of everything Eddie needs to learn—searing, simmering, and how to properly cook noodles without turning them into a gelatinous mess—and himself because he had recruited Eddie into being an active cooking participant under the guise of making sure Chris was safe. 

_Genius_. 

And honestly, Eddie is as delighted with Christopher’s new cooking equipment as his kid is, giggling with his son as they arrange pre-cut onion slices on a (new, non-slip) cutting board and mashing the top of the dicer down with so much enthusiasm that Buck resigns himself to ordering more the next day, anticipating it not lasting very long at the rate they’re going. He hovers behind him when Buck hands the wooden spoon to Chris and teaches him to sauté garlic, cook the onions until they’re translucent, and how to add cans of San Marzano tomatoes slowly enough that they don’t splatter everywhere. Under Buck’s direction, he watches Chris measure ingredients, digs his hands into the meatball mixture (grape jelly-free, _thank you very much_ ) to mush everything together, and does his share of forming it into perfectly sized meatballs. 

Buck, who has been the solo cook for so long, savors the feeling of being with his family; of putting his hand on top of Christopher’s to help him stir, of watching Eddie’s proud smile when he looks at his son, of Eddie’s warm hand on his neck, fingers rubbing absently at Buck’s hair as they both step back and watch Christopher happily chopping fresh herbs, of the way the kitchen sounds and smells like love and family. 

Despite telling Chris there’s nothing to do now but wait, because the sauce takes several hours, he insists on waiting in the kitchen. Buck doesn’t mind. Chris brings his art kit out and keeps himself entertained while Buck sprawls on his chair, eyes closed as Eddie stands behind him and massages his shoulders. 

He half-protests when Eddie stops, but Eddie just sits down next to him, his arm a comforting weight around Buck’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. Buck feels him lean until their heads are touching and he slouches in further, soaking up all of Eddie’s warmth and affection. “I want this forever,” Eddie says quietly. Buck makes a noise of agreement, but doesn’t open his eyes until Eddie nudges at him. 

“Me too,” he says, in case Eddie can’t read it in the relaxed sprawl of his body, in the way his heart beats Eddie’s name over and over. 

“Buck,” Eddie says, and his eyes have the crinkle in the corner that Buck loves so much, “I’m asking you to marry me.”

Across the table, Christopher’s marker clatters to the ground. 

If Buck could freeze time, it would be this moment, this place, right here. “Eddie,” he says, “I’m saying yes.”

Their spaghetti that night is the best that Buck has ever had. 

“ _Felicidades,_ ” Abeula greets him the next morning. “Come, I have something for you.”

“Eddie told you?” he asks. He sets the coffee and pastry box on the table and leans down to hug her—a little tighter than normal, maybe, delighted that he’ll officially be part of her family soon. 

“Eddie? No, that boy is so in his own head, I won’t hear about it until Sunday from him. Christopher called. He was so excited. As am I.” She takes his hand and squeezes gently before taking something out of her pocket. “Evito, it’s okay to say no, but I want you to have this.” 

He stares at the ring she’s offering him. 

“It was my Edmundo’s,” she says, “God rest his soul. He was a good man. He would have loved you.”

“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t you give that to Eddie?” His voice is cracking. He feels the corners of his eyes burning, his heart overwhelmed at what she’s offering him. 

“Do you want to know how I knew Eddie would marry you?” she asks. “Edmundo told me the night I met you.” The change in direction makes Buck blink, gives him enough time to pull himself together before the tears in his eyes really start to flow. 

“Eddie told you?” he says. Then, because he had met Abuela long before he even knew he was in love with Eddie, he says, “wait, when?”

“Not my grandson,” she says. “My husband. Edmundo lost this ring before he passed,” she explains. “I looked for years to find it, to have this piece of him, but I never could. And that garden! Edmundo was never out there, and I planted for _years_ without finding it, but there you were that night, playing with Christopher, rolling in my dirt, and when you came in you handed me this.”

Buck remembers. He thought he had done something wrong at first, when Abuela had started crying, but she had hugged him tightly and it had been left at that. When he asked Eddie about it, he looked bewildered and shrugged it off.

“You see, _hijo_ , I could not give this to Eddie, because his grandfather already gave it to you.” She presses it into his hand. “If you do not wear it as a wedding ring, I understand. But please, keep it. Know that you are the one my husband chose for his namesake.”

Slowly, over the next several weeks, Christopher and Eddie learn new skills. Buck shows them how to flick water at a pan to see if it’s hot enough to sear, how to make the homemade pesto that Eddie loves, how to cook shrimp until they’re done and not until they can be used to patch tires, and how to make proper blackened chicken (Eddie laughs, but Chris just looks terrified when Buck tells them what the plan is). 

And, because Eddie tries hard but still is a bit of a disaster, Buck shows Christopher how to put out a grease fire using a cookie sheet and baking soda. 

“Trying to keep us in business, Eddie?” Buck jokes, even though his heart is racing. Putting out fires might be his livelihood, but he’d prefer not having to do so in his own house. “Or are you really just that insistent that blackened chicken means burned?”

Eddie laughs. “I really think this just isn’t my thing,” he says. “Sorry, Chris, I was just trying to help you flip them.”

Buck can’t figure out if Chris looks more irritated at the thought of needing help from his hapless father, or because he had begged Buck not to try the chicken again and Buck hadn’t listened. “You both owe me pizza,” Chris says, and adds, “I want pepperoni,” before disappearing into his room. 

Surveying the mess—baking powder everywhere, thrown a little too enthusiastically by Buck in his haste to avoid a total disaster, dirty bowls littering the counter, two eggs broken on the floor—Buck sighs. “Well, you heard the kid,” he says. “Go order some pizza.”

He’s about to start gathering all the dishes when Eddie pulls him close and presses a kiss to his lips. “I’ve got it,” Eddie says. “Pretty sure the one who starts the fire should be the one to clean up after it.”

“I can help,” Buck says, but Eddie pulls him over to the doorway and into the living room. 

“Buck,” he says, with the smile that always makes Buck go a little dreamy, “I got it. Go order the pizza and then make sure Chris is okay, will you?”

By the time the doorbell rings, Buck’s kitchen is sparkling clean, and Christopher has made him pinky promise three times that the words _blackened chicken_ will never be uttered in the house again. It’s a small price to pay for the way he feels when they smush together on the couch, Chris in the middle, pizza on the coffee table, and Buck would pay it a thousand times if asked. 

Buck can’t bring himself to get out of his car. He’d dragged himself off the truck just after midnight, scrubbed his skin raw in the shower trying to wipe the soot and ash from one of the most heartbreaking shifts of his career off, and now he can’t summon the energy to open his car door. He leans forward, resting his head on the steering wheel.

He should have just stayed at the station. 

The sound of the door opening makes him jump, but the familiar feel of Eddie’s hand on his arm soothes his heartbeat back to normal. “Scared me,” he mumbles. He’s surprised the words come out in the right order. His body feels heavy, though whether it’s with exhaustion or heartache, he can’t tell. 

“Come on, buddy,” Eddie says. His voice is a song in Buck’s ear, his touch chases away the things Buck doesn’t want to see behind his closed eyelids anymore. “I got you.”

He allows himself to be half-carried into the house. He’s not actually sure if he’s helping Eddie at all, but they make it inside, and when Buck turns towards the hallway, Eddie steers him towards the kitchen. “Not hungry,” he says. It doesn’t come out very clearly; Eddie either doesn’t understand him or doesn’t agree. 

“You need to eat something, Buck. You were at that building for seven hours.” 

He lays his head on the table. “Don’t wanna,” he says. “Can’t.”

“You can try,” Eddie says. “I made you something. Just try, please.”

Buck lifts his head and stares at Eddie. “You cooked?”

“I know what you’ve been doing, Buck,” Eddie says softly. He slides a plate down in front of him—grilled cheese. It looks _amazing_ , and for a moment Buck can only stare at it, until Eddie nudges the plate closer, and he picks it up without thinking and takes a bite. “It took me a little while to catch on, but then I realized—you didn’t need my help with Chris at all. That kid hangs on every word you say, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that you would let him do anything that could potentially hurt him. Didn’t take me much longer to realize that you were trying to teach me, too. _And_ that it was working. It means a lot to me, Buck. I wanted you to know.”

Buck’s hands are shaking. His whole _body_ is shaking. He feels like he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything. He knows, in the back of his mind, that it’s the adrenaline crash, the sudden let-down, the shock of his emotions flooding into his body all at the same time. It’s the way Eddie is looking at him, so loving and giving and _his_ , it’s almost too much to process, to hold. 

“You’re a good man, Buck,” Eddie says, reaching for his hand. “You can’t save everyone. But you’ve saved me and Chris, and we’ll be here to save you too, if that’s what you need.” 

He wants to react. He wants to grab Eddie and hold on for dear life, to show him how much he loves him, to lay himself bare and beg Eddie to put him back together again. 

Eddie clears his plate, helps him up, and leads him down the hallway. When Buck tries to stop at Christopher’s door, he nudges him along the hall. “I need-“ Buck says, and can’t finish. Can’t bring himself to talk about what he saw that night, can’t let it into his head again. 

“I know,” Eddie says. “I put him in our bed.” 

Somehow, he makes it through Eddie helping him change out of his uniform, the soft brush of Eddie’s hands grounding him, bringing him back home, pulling him out of his memory. Christopher is on his side of the bed, and when he looks to Eddie, ready to ask if he can help move him, Eddie shakes his head. “You’re in the middle tonight,” he says. 

He doesn’t protest, just slides to the middle and slides an arm under Christopher’s head, pulling him close and kissing his temple. Eddie joins him a moment later, and finally, Buck can breathe. 

Somewhere in the hazy grey between sleep and wakefulness, Buck feels small hands slide across his shoulders and up to his face. His body feels heavy, sluggish, but the hands on him are benevolent, soothing the crushing weight he holds in his chest.

“I told you to leave him alone,” he hears, soft, far away.

The weight of the bed shifts, the absence of warmth and comfort immediate.

“He’s _crying_ , Dad.”

The bed shifts again, and Buck sinks into the touch of fingers in his hair and on his cheek, losing himself in the slow drift back into dreamless sleep.

Some time later, he wakes up with his head in Christoper’s lap. “Hey buddy,” he says, his voice coming out raw, in a whisper. Smoke damage, he knows. He’ll feel it all day. 

“Hey Bucky,” Chris says, patting his cheek. “Do you need Dad?”

“Nah,” Buck says, eyes still closed. “What time is it?”

“Almost lunch,” Chris says. “You were asleep for a long time.” Buck feels his hands move, down to his shoulders, whispering over the bruised skin of his arms and chest. “What happened? Dad wouldn’t tell me, but I heard him tell Abuela that you were hurt. He got mad at me for listening.”

“Jumped off a roof,” Buck replies. _Threw himself_ off a roof was closer to the truth, a desperate attempt at escaping from the collapsing building that he’d already almost fallen through trying to get to the edge. The third time it had given way under him, sending his right leg crashing through to a support beam that cracked loudly and began to drop, he’d offered up a prayer, struggled to pull himself up, and flung himself the five feet to the edge of the building and beyond.

“Why didn’t you use the stairs?”

“Tried,” he said. “They weren’t there anymore.”

He’s not sure how long he lays there, quiet, peaceful in the careful way Christopher soothes him. He just rests, accepts the comfort that he’s being given. “Abuela says that Abuelo saved you. Dad says she’s filling my head with nonsense.” Buck laughs quietly. Eddie’s always been bothered by his grandmother’s insistence that she had a sixth sense. “Was he there, Buck? Did you see him?”

“No,” Buck says honestly, and adds, “but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,” out of loyalty to Abuela. 

“I don’t think it's nonsense,” Christopher tells him, a whispered confession. “I think he watches us.”

Buck thinks about the ring in his drawer, about the 30 foot fall he walked away from with no more than bruises and a scratch above his eye. “I think so, too,” he says, and then, because it’s getting too heavy, getting too close to thinking about how he almost never had _this_ again, how he very well could have been yet another body laying in that burning house, he shifts off of Christopher and sits up. “I think it’s lunch time, buddy,” he says.

Chris wiggles off the bed. “I’ll go make you a sandwich,” he says. “Stay right here.” 

Buck does as he’s told, taking the time alone to look himself over carefully, press his fingers carefully into his mottled skin to feel the bruising, a painful but welcome reminder that he was alive. He’s contemplating dragging himself over to the mirror when Eddie comes in, carrying a plate and a steaming mug, which he sets carefully on the nightstand. 

“I told Chris to give us a minute,” he says, looking over Buck carefully. “Tell me how you’re really feeling.”

“Sore,” Buck says. There’s no point in pretending he’s fine, his body is telling the story under Eddie’s watchful gaze. “My throat hurts. Not sure if I can make it to the park with you guys today.”

Eddie waves his hand, sits down on the bed and passes the plate to Buck. “Chris decided we should go to the pool. He thinks you’d like the hot tub.”

“He’s a pretty smart kid,” Buck says. He looks down at the plate that Eddie’s given him and blinks. “Eddie.”

“Hmm?”

“You made me scrambled eggs,” he says. 

“Figured it’d be easier on you than a sandwich,” Eddie says.

“Eddie,” he says again.

“Yes?”

“They’re _perfect_.”

Christopher is sighing. 

It’s such an obvious ploy for attention that Buck hides his grin, looking at Eddie in amusement. They’re trying Mexican rice tonight, a recipe that Abuela has walked him through several times. Buck is a competent cook—good enough to teach Eddie, at least—but he’s no Abuela. He cooks with recipes, not with feeling. 

Abuela does not believe in measurements. She tells him, _you’ll know when it’s enough_ , but Buck’s a little apprehensive about that. He wishes he would have been able to try this on his own before trying to coach Eddie through it, but Eddie had proclaimed he had a craving at lunch and, well. Who was Buck to deny him that?

Christopher, who had been eagerly looking forward to learning how to make Athena’s fried chicken, proclaimed rice to be “too boring” and was sitting at the table as Buck watched Eddie carefully sautéing the rice. 

Sighing. 

Incessantly. 

“Out with it,” Eddie finally says, turning and pointing the wooden spoon at Chris.

“I thought we were going to get _married_ ,” Chris huffs, looking at his father. 

Buck and Eddie share a look and Buck smothers another grin as his heart leaps. “Buck and I are getting married,” Eddie says. “But you’re not really a part of that, _mijo_.”

“Am too,” Christopher mutters. “But you’re not even _talking_ about it. I _knew_ this would happen.”

“What exactly,” Eddie says, “is happening? Or not happening?”

Christopher sighs. Again. By Buck’s count, that’s roughly ten times in five minutes, which he considers impressive. “We— _you guys_ —say you’re getting married, but you don’t even talk about it, and you haven’t even asked anyone to come because you’re not really getting married.”

Eddie’s expression has become tighter the longer Christoper talks. “And how exactly do you know that? We love you, but we don’t include you in all of our conversations.”

“Buck would tell me.”

Eddie shoots him a look, and Buck busies himself with adding the tomatoes to the pan, trying to look innocent. Probably failing. Chris isn’t wrong, Buck definitely would have talked about it. “I really don’t like the tone,” Eddie starts, and Buck, taking mercy on Christopher _and_ himself, interrupts. 

“Well, let's talk about it,” Buck says. “Eddie? Ideas?”

“I have some,” Chris says.

The boy is a genius, Buck thinks, though he could stand to refine his technique a little so that his father didn’t want to kill him before he got a chance to actually say what was on his mind. 

“We’re waiting,” Eddie says dryly. His arms are crossed, and the way he leans against the counter makes Buck wish he was leaning on _him_. Preferably with fewer clothes on. 

“Abuela says you have to get married on a Saturday.”

“Does she.” 

Chris either does not hear the light note of sarcasm in his father’s tone, or doesn’t care. “Yes. And you need a big church.”

“We’re not getting married in a church.”

“ _Ay, Dios mío_.” Chris taps his hand against his forehead lightly in such a perfect imitation of Abuela that Buck nearly laughs. A peek at Eddie out of the corner of his eye shows that he’s also trying to hide his amusement. “Well, I’m not telling her that.”

“Pretty sure she knows,” Eddie says. Buck nudges him, motioning to the chicken stock, and Eddie picks it up and starts to pour it in the pan slowly.

“And Abuela says-“

“Chris.” Eddie cuts him off, and though his tone has a sharpness to it, he’s watching his son with a tender expression. “This isn’t Abuela’s wedding, buddy. We need to figure out what we want.”

Chris stares at his dad, then looks at Buck, unsure. Feeling a little sorry for him—the kid has a big heart, and Buck is pretty sure that Chris doesn’t care one way or another _how_ they get married so long as it actually happens—Buck offers, “I’d like it to be small.”

“You sure?” Eddie asks. “I don’t want you to regret not having the whole big party.” 

“Oh, I want the whole big party.” Buck says, “but everything else I just want—I just want us.”

“And me?” Christopher’s voice is quiet. 

Buck and Eddie’s “of _course_ ,” is in unison, and Eddie squeezes Buck’s arm before going to sit with Chris. “We’ll always want you with us,” Eddie says quietly. “Always, Chris.”

Buck turns the temperate on the stovetop down, makes sure the lid is on properly, and joins his family at the table. “Why don’t we start with picking a date,” he suggests, reaching out and running his hand through Christopher’s messy curls. “It can even be a Saturday, if you want.”

While the rice simmers, they choose a date (a Friday, as it turns out) and help Chris write a list—get a marriage license, pick out rings (Buck admits that he already has them and Eddie’s complete lack of surprise tells him that Eddie’s probably snooped through his drawers a few too many times), find an officiant. 

“You sure you don’t want _anyone_ there?” Eddie asks. 

He doesn’t know how to explain to Eddie the certainty he feels, how it feels so right when it’s just the three of them. It had been the three of them when Buck told Eddie he loved him for the first time, it had been the three of them when Eddie proposed, and all Buck wants is to keep it that way. So he just reaches his hand out for Eddie’s, and nods. “You okay with that, buddy?” he asks Chris. 

“Yeah,” Chris says, his eyes bright. “But Abuela is going to kill you guys.”

Evan Diaz has a problem, and his name is Eddie Diaz. 

Specifically, Eddie Diaz and his complete lack of awareness about how much food fifty people will actually eat, because he’s got enough crammed into the refrigerator to serve at least three times that, and that’s not even counting what’s already out on the table in the backyard. 

Buck understands that he lost control of this party long ago—probably from the second Christopher had anything to do with planning, but _still_. He thinks he’s going to be eating elote for the rest of his life **,** and as much as he enjoys it, some variety would be nice. 

Scratch that—there’s plenty of variety, all of it made in long, marathon kitchen sessions with help from his husband and son (words he has repeated at least seventy-two times in his head today, each time more reverent than the last) over the last several days. As a wedding menu, it’s an absolute disaster: hamburgers, hot dogs, and barbecue chicken on the grill, elote, potato salad, tamales, Mexican rice—but for them, it’s perfect. The only things Chris hadn’t been able to convince them of was pancakes and pizza. There’s even a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs around somewhere that Chris had made completely on his own.

Buck gets so caught up in staring at Eddie across the yard—his _husband_ — that it takes him a moment to realize that Hen is talking to him. 

“Who is this man and is he taken,” she jokes, playfully elbowing Buck’s side. “The Eddie I know would burn water if given half a chance.”

Buck laughs—she’s not wrong. “That’s the least of what he burned on his way here,” he says. “I think I had to buy a new set of pans every week—and at least four strainers.”

“You did good,” she says. “And who would have thought that Evan Buckley would go from cooking the same two meals every night to all this?”

“Diaz,” he says. 

“That boy didn’t even know you when all you’d make for us was grilled cheese and scrambled eggs,” Hen scoffs. 

“No,” Buck says. “It’s Diaz, now. Not Buckley.”

He doesn’t have to wait long, but it’s not Hen who reacts first, it’s May—who he didn’t realize was standing behind him until he feels her grab his hand—the one he’s worn his wedding ring on all night without anyone at all noticing—and she shrieks, “Evan _Diaz_?”

There’s a hush that settles around them and then the noise picks back up, louder, more urgent, more joyful than before. He meets Eddie’s gaze across the backyard, watches the smile appear on his face, soft and loving, and Evan Diaz has no problems at all, not a single one. 

**Author's Note:**

> 100% self-indulgent trash but I hope you liked it! 
> 
> [prompt me on tumblr](https://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com/ask) or follow [hearteyesforbuck](https://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com/)


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